


Heavy Sleep

by booksong



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, Dreams, Gen, Nightmares, justified angst, poor eren, rated T for dream imagery and safety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksong/pseuds/booksong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes he wished that the scouting legion and his commanding officers had never drummed into him the notion of sacrifice for the future."</p>
<p>Eren dreams almost every night, except for the ones where he doesn't sleep at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy Sleep

Ever since Wall Maria had been breached and he had watched his mother eaten alive, he’d dreamed. Eren couldn’t remember if he’d ever dreamed before that, when he was small; maybe it was just that he’d never paid much attention to it. Or maybe, like everything else that had happened before that day, those long-ago dreams had simply paled in comparison to what his life was now.

But he dreamed now. Almost every night, without fail. 

***

At first, it had simply been the expected. Over and over again during the years in Wall Rose he would snap awake gasping, throat dry from silently screaming for his mother. It was a simple, straightforward nightmare, his mind clinging sadistically to the horrific, haunting moment that had shattered his entire life. He hated it, hated the nagging fear that beat around in his skull every night as he drifted off, knowing it was coming. But it was also the sort of dream he could feed to his fury like kindling. And because Mikasa slept on a cot across the room, on the nights when it got so bad he woke sobbing in a cold sweat, she would slip under the sheets next to him and wordlessly wrap her scarf around them both until he quieted. 

Those dreams should have been the worst, but he remembered them almost longingly now. 

***

Blessedly, the first few nights after he entered military training, Eren didn’t dream at all. He was far too exhausted for it. Then a few bland, almost laughable ones leaked in; dreams about everyone laughing at him while he tangled himself in the 3D gear, or while every female trainee thrashed him in succession during sparring. Annoying dreams, but he was so grateful for them. 

Somewhere around the beginning of his fourth week of training, Eren had his first dream about killing a Titan. He woke with his fingers still twitching like they were clasped around the triggers of his blades, his blood pumping hot with adrenaline. When he looked in the mirror the remnants of a savage grin lingered around the edges of his mouth. He could still remember the feeling of the flesh parting, and that alone was enough to get him through the day feeling almost happy.  


***

The very next night he dreamed he watched Mikasa die. His fingers were frozen on the switches of his gear, and he stood rooted as he watched the Titan rip each one of her limbs off individually. She didn’t make a sound the whole time. Neither did he. 

He didn’t know what to think when his first clear feeling upon waking was surprise that he hadn’t dreamed about it sooner. 

***

That was the beginning.

Since then he’d built up a catalogue, as he liked to think of it, with a bitter, slightly hysterical twist of his mouth. His life was now full of so much fodder, so many dilemmas and regrets and horrors for his brain to turn over while he slept that he sometimes wondered why he had any recurring dreams at all. 

Sometimes he’d wake with hot tear tracks drawn through the dried dust and blood he hadn’t bothered to wipe off his cheeks, other times with his mouth full of sour cotton where he’d been biting his pillow in rage or grief or helplessness. Sometimes he woke with a cry of warning or despair strangled unspoken in his throat, other times on the edge of hysterical laughter that felt like broken glass when he swallowed it back down. 

He learned to quell the urge to throw off his blankets and go to check on each person he’d watched die that night. He learned not to jerk awake clawing wildly for weapons that weren’t there, gasping like his lungs were about to burst. He learned not to wish that he could just fall back asleep and dream of nothing until it was time to break camp or patrol or kill Titans.

No one had slipped silently in beside him to calm his shaking in a long time, and so he learned to stop wishing for that too. 

***

Sometimes he didn’t dream, but only because he didn’t sleep. Instead he lay awake thinking, planning, rehearsing, hoping. Always hoping. The ache of hope settled at the base of his ribs was something that was more familiar than bruises. 

Sometimes he wondered what the others dreamed about. He wondered if he wanted to know.

***

Sometimes he wished that the scouting legion and his commanding officers had never drummed into him the notion of sacrifice for the future. 

It was a noble thing to think about, sure; even comforting in its own twisted way, to believe you were dying for the greatest cause of all—a chance at setting mankind free from its cage. Eren had felt firsthand the kind of grief-stricken, humbling awe at the idea that the deaths of others had paved the way for his triumph. The idea that they had paid that price willingly, as soldiers. 

His dreams had other ideas about sacrifice, sometimes, though. They freed the dark whispers that he chased away from his mind with bared teeth, the things he didn’t want to think too hard about. 

Sometimes he dreamed he was a Titan, carrying that massive, crushing boulder down the streets of Trost to plug the breach. His shoulder tendons tore from the weight; he could almost feel his bones collapsing in on themselves as he fought not to let go, not to buckle before he reached his goal. And then people would begin to appear all along the rooftops around him. Soldiers, mostly; he knew them by the 3D maneuver gear buckled at their waists. But there were civilians too, ordinary people dressed in rags and cloaks. Their faces were the faces of the dead.

They held fist-sized stones in their hands, and as he stomped past them, step by agonizing step, they hurled the stones down on him. Not in anger; Eren knew this in the strange way you know things in dreams. They tossed the stones to him almost as offerings, as benedictions. And as the rocks fell they became part of the boulder he carried, somehow, and it got heavier and heavier until his Titan spine was bending under the weight of it. _‘You have to carry it, Eren!’_ the onlookers shouted. _‘You have to get to the wall, or everyone will have died in vain!’_ He wanted to tell them to stop adding their rocks, their lives, to his burden, but his Titan’s roar meant nothing to them. And the idea that any one of them could had died for nothing was unbearable to him. 

So he would wake with a phantom ache in his back and legs where the bones had finally snapped in half from the impossible weight of other people’s sacrifices, listening to the dream-echo of his own scream of pain and grief embedded in a Titan’s voice.

***

And sometimes he dreamed he was scaling a hill that he knew was the last obstacle between him and the shores of the ocean he had always wanted so badly to see. Or maybe it was the ice fields, or the lakes of flame. He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it was _right there_ , just over the crest, and then freedom would be his. Would be humanity’s.

It always began simply, his feet planting solidly, his muscles working strong from years of launching himself through the air on maneuver gear. But then there would be a footfall that would land a little soft, a little…strange. The ground would have a little give to it, the soil suddenly loose and uneven. Walking would get harder, clumsier, until he was swearing at his own missteps.

And eventually he would look down in irritated frustration, and realize he had one foot planted on someone’s shoulder, or someone’s stomach, or worst of all, a face. He would stumble and kick loose a piece of gear, a bladed handle tumbling away down the hill of jumbled bodies with an empty, mocking clink. The emblems on their stained, wrinkled uniforms would blur and spin before his horrified eyes; wings, crossed swords, roses, unicorns. He would try to keep his footing, but cloth and skin and hair would slide under him and he’d be half blind with nausea and grief. 

And then a hand would grab him by the ankle, and he’d experience a moment of sheer, animal panic that something was going to drag him under, to suffocate among the dead as he’d once believed he would in a Titan’s stomach. But instead the hand would push at his calf, surprisingly strong and firm, steadying him, urging him onward and upward. And he’d look down at the hand’s owner, even though everything in him always screamed not to.

Sometimes it was one of the 104th: Jean, curling his lip in mocking challenge as if to say _‘You useless bastard, how dare you stop here,’_ Krista, her sleek blond hair tangled up and streaked with mud and blood, Bertholdt, looking so weary you could believe he’d used up his last measure of strength in the push, Annie, her pale eyes forever inscrutable, Sasha, kind of hopeful as though she expected him to hand her something to eat even now, Reiner, his head dipping in a single, quiet nod of encouragement, Ymir, eyes flashing viciously, Connie, giving a brave but tired grin. 

Sometimes it was Levi’s fallen squad, their eerily clear gazes a physical weight on his shoulders, born of sacrifice and choices and broken promises. Sometimes it was Captain Levi himself, giving him the same look he’d seen the man give to so many dying soldiers who asked whether it was worth anything, in the end. Or Squad Leader Hansi, goggles cracked in tiny, blood-flecked spirals so that he couldn’t see the fading, manic gleam in those eyes.

Sometimes it was Armin, and Eren could see the distant reflection of the sea, the burning meadows, the sand plains in his eyes and the peaceful curve of his smile. Sometimes it was Mikasa, her dark, steady gaze commanding him always to _live, live, live damn you Eren_ and he wanted only to drop to his knees and bury his face in one end of the scarf he’d given her so long ago. 

They never said anything, none of them, just…looked at him. Eren wished he’d never learned to read their faces so well. 

He never did make it over the top of the hill in that dream. He wasn’t sure if it was because it didn’t actually have a top, or because he wasn’t strong enough to make it over, once he’d been reminded that he climbed toward the future on a road of borrowed time and stolen lives. 

And that he didn’t want to, if it meant he was only going to arrive alone. 

****

But sometimes he’d dream he stood holding hands with Mikasa and Armin on the shores of a vast, heaving sea, sand sinking between their toes, the water lapping warm at their ankles. Mikasa’s hand would be warm and callused and vice-tight on his right side, and Armin’s would always be sweat-slick and trembling with emotion in his left. He would roar in pure, triumphant joy and pull the three of them shouting into the water, which _moved on its own_ and really _did_ taste like salt. They would wash the dried blood and grime from their skin and when he surfaced Eren would look back and see everyone there, waiting on the sand. All the soldiers, unbuckling their gear and letting it fall, unneeded at last, to the sand, staring in undisguised awe. And he would wave madly and bellow their names until his throat was raw, would roar over and over again, “We did it! Everyone… _WE’RE FREE!_ ”

And that might have been the worst nightmare of all. That was the one where, upon waking, he could only pull the blankets over his head and bite his tongue until it bled to keep from making any noise. Because every time he had that dream, more of the people waiting on the beach were dead, their lives given trying to bring it closer to a reality that they would never see.

***

It was in the middle of the night—a warm night with no moon—that Eren woke gasping once again from that particular dream. He pawed reflexively at his eyes, striking savagely at the dampness that gathered there, clenching his teeth to bite back the emotion that welled up in his chest, throat, eyes, skull, beating against his skin like water trying to break a dam. 

His sheets twitched, rustled ever so slightly against each other.

He yelped before he could stop himself, striking out blindly at the intrusion before a hand pinned his wrists to the mattress and another pressed firm across his mouth. 

In the darkness his eyes made out red cloth. The reflection of dark eyes. Mikasa. 

She didn’t say anything; not ‘It’s me,’ or ‘Quiet.’ She just looked at him, until it was understood between their gazes, hers serene as ever, his accusing and questioning and then grudgingly surrendering, that he wasn’t going to make any more noise. She removed her hands from his wrists and mouth, then without further hesitation lifted the sheets and slid in next to him.

He wanted to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing, but he still didn’t trust his voice not to crack embarrassingly. At least she was still wearing her uniform; like him she hadn’t bothered to take it off. He didn’t know what he would have done if she’d been undressed. 

She must have seen the question in his face, though. She let her head fall carelessly on the pillow next to his. “You dream a lot.” It was a statement, not a question, and he chose not to deny it. Maybe he was just too tired. Maybe because he knew he couldn’t lie to Mikasa, not here and now.

As if he’d made a response aloud, Mikasa nodded slowly and loosened her scarf. It was dusty from the days traveling, and it smelled like must and sweat and trampled grass. She reached over and tucked the slack end over his neck and shoulders, so that a length of it ran between them, the way it had in those early days of nightmares behind Wall Rose. Eren closed his eyes and inhaled, and in that moment it was perhaps the most soothing thing he’d ever smelled. 

He heard a sound behind him and rolled over so fast the scarf tightened uncomfortably around his neck.

The mattress dipped as Armin settled himself, a little hesitantly, on the edge of the bed near Eren’s hip. By now his eyes had adjusted enough to the dimness to make out the slim shape of a book in his friend’s hands. 

“You guys shouldn’t be in here.” Eren had woken up enough now to make his voice as low as possible, barely moving his lips. 

“I should have come earlier,” Armin said softly, almost to himself, as though he hadn’t heard. “I mean, everyone knows you have nightmares…” He glanced over at the angry, embarrassed hissing sound Eren made. “You aren’t the only one, you know,” he murmured, placating.

“The better question is who doesn’t,” said Mikasa calmly from his other side, her fingers placidly rearranging the scarf over his throat. Part of him wanted to smack her hand away, and the other part wanted to grab her fingers and hold on.

“I thought it might help if…” Armin trailed off, and instead brushed his fingers tenderly over the cover of the book he held. Of course Eren knew which one it was; even in the dark, he’d memorized the shape and size of that book. The one with the stories about the outside world, and the pictures. The one they’d pored over as children for hours and hours.

He didn’t want to hear about the outside world now. If he saw those pictures, he would only remember his dreams: see Armin’s and Mikasa’s bodies under his feet, pushing him up that hill, see the ocean where the dead and the still living stood shoulder to shoulder on the beach and made him forget which was which. 

He fumbled one free hand from under the blanket to stop Armin’s, which had been starting to peel open the yellowed pages. When Armin began to say something, Eren just squeezed his hand, hard enough to cut off whatever he’d been about to say. ‘I understand,’ maybe. Or ‘I’m sorry.’ Nothing he wanted to hear. 

For a moment he wondered if he should try to explain, even try to tell them about what he’d dreamt over these long nights. But he couldn’t even think of how to begin such a story. And he didn’t want to see the pain on their faces any more than he wanted to hear about the world outside the walls right now. He saw enough pain when he closed his eyes.

So the words died unspoken on his tongue, and he leaned his head back onto the pillow instead, Armin’s fingers still woven loosely with his. He felt Mikasa unerringly find his other hand in the dark. Their wrists aligned, and for some reason the soft, almost tickly feel of her pulse point beating steadily against his made his eyes prick. He dismissed it as lack of sleep.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” he murmured, although he couldn’t manage to muster more than a few stray threads of annoyance into the words. He might as well not have spoken, for all that either of them moved. 

Armin did not try to open the book again. Mikasa tugged his pillow into a more comfortable position with her free hand. Eren, with no illusions of going back to sleep, nevertheless tilted his face a little so that the warm, rough fabric of the scarf brushed over his cheek, reminding him of those nights years ago when it was easier to let go of his nightmares.

The outside world and its wonders belonged to the light of day. Out there, with the sky bright and concrete tasks to accomplish, orders to follow, blades in his hands, the feeling of movement and momentum toward a goal. That was when he could he think of Armin’s books and let himself daydream about salt water and hills of snow and freedom for all humanity.

But in the darkness that came before dawn, he could only hold the hands of the two people he trusted with his life and with his weaknesses, feeling their pulses in his hands and the ache of hope beneath his ribs. They were not standing before the ocean, not yet, but for now it was close enough.

That night he did not dream again, but only because he didn’t want to miss a moment of this.

**Author's Note:**

> *A fic about Eren having nightmares probably isn't the most original premise in the SnK fandom, but I couldn't help wondering what _kind_ of things weigh on him the most. I think underneath that reckless 'kill Titans' shell there's a lot of grief and pain and doubt in Eren that we don't get to see much of in the daylight hours. 
> 
> And then of course my heart always longs to give these poor characters some hope, hence the last part, which takes place during some unspecified time on the campaign outside the walls. I probably took some liberties with the Survey Corps sleeping/camping arrangements to make it happen, so please forgive those.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


End file.
